


One Ferris Friday

by Catatonic



Category: Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986)
Genre: 80s movies, pizza delivery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catatonic/pseuds/Catatonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron waits on Ferris and has a hard time with a pizza delivery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Ferris Friday

It was nearing seven (there was still the drive to pick up Sloane) and Ferris Bueller slammed the bathroom door; he turned up the radio-cassette. Ain’t that a Kick in the Head played and Ferris threw his clothes to the floor. He sang along with Dean through the steam. Cameron sat on the couch down in the living room, staring at the low volume television, with flicker of closed captions lulling him at ease. The last light of the day streamed into the half-drawn curtains and informally introduced itself to the panel towards the rear of the television set. Cameron flipped the station. The water continuing to run, Ferris poked his head out the bathroom and yelled down to Cameron.  
“Hey, Cam! If the door should ring, would you mind getting it?”  
“Okay.” Cam sniffled.  
“Thanks, Cam.”  
“Sure, Ferris,” he yawned.  
Cameron looked back at the clock and thought about scaring Bueller to get him to preen himself faster. The doorbell rang, prolonging the Is between the D and the ng sound. Cameron jumped just a little, and entertained the idea that in thinking about surprising Ferris, he had surprised himself. He fidgeted and walked towards the door. He was hesitant to open it when he reached out for the handle.  
Cameron had answered many doors in his days, but for some reason or another Cameron only stared past the person on the other side if it, not thinking, not knowing what to say; even forgetting the most common of courtesies. It was a delivery boy. I say boy, but in truth he was, perhaps, twice that of Cameron and Ferris’ age. The boy-man’s company polo was starchy and embroidered with an unambiguous, red-threaded, “Paul”. The deliverer looked up at the large white home and re-read the information on the pamphlet he had in hand. His head kind of swayed, and the way it did made him look like he was read-singing lyrics rather than checking an address.  
“Twenty-three seventy-one,” said Paul. He scratched at his right ear like something out of a garbage bin.  
“For what,” asked Cameron, distracted by he way the man itched himself.  
“I think it’s pizza, guy.”  
Cameron said nothing and looked down at his own leather shoes.  
“One pep,” he squinted, “and one…ch,” the deliverer clicked.  
Cameron remained speechless.  
“It’s made out to a Ferret Buford.”  
“Ferris Bueller?” asked Cameron, finally. Cameron was nervous, unsure.  
“That’s what I said – Ferret Buford.” Paul popped his gum through smiling teeth. “You don’t look like a Ferret.”  
“That’s because I’m a Cameron,” he stated, now agitated. “You look more like a Rat,” added Cam, again not thinking. “This is indeed the ‘Buford’ house, however.”  
“Twenty-three seventy-one,” said Paul, a second time.  “But you’re not Ferret Buford.”  
“No,” responded Cameron slowly – cutting off the other's diction – “but I’m a close and personal friend of Ferris Bueller.”  
Cameron cracked a sarcastic smile and turned back into the house for the money.  
Ferris’ razoring echoed throughout the house. Cameron rolled his eyes then scuttled about for his wallet. He opened the door once more, now in socks – “Paul” was nowhere in sight.  
Cam eyed the deliberate tracks the delivery boy had left in the driveway. He shut his eyes muttered something, and bit his lip harshly.  
Back in the house, Cam could hear that his friend had finished this evening's buzzing ritual. Ferris was humming between the intermittent smack!(of after-shave)  
Meticulously q-tipping his ears, Ferris crossed the hall to his bedroom. He talked loudly, through his door, to Cameron.  
“Did anybody knock at the door?”  
“Nope.” That delivery boy had rung at the door.  
“Gosh,” said Ferris, more to himself than to Cameron, “I really would've thought they'd be here by now.” He paused, towelling off. “If he comes yet, Cam, just don't tip 'im – Okay?”  
“Sure, Ferris.”


End file.
